


Drabbles

by nakanti



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26790685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakanti/pseuds/nakanti
Summary: i have these drabbles sitting in my tumblr drafts and i dont know how to continue with them. that being said, free for yall to use if youd like - use these as prompts or pickyback off and finish them. just let me know, id love to read them.





	1. Chapter 1

Daryl’s lips curled around his cigarette as he took a long pull, the knife between his fingers busy at picking dirt from under his nails. The flame from the fire is hot on his face despite how low its burnt, and he can feel the comfortable weight of his crossbow against his knee. He’s not tense, more calm than he had been in months, but there’s still a hunch to his shoulders. The other’s voices were low, more out of habit than necessity, though most had given over to sleep. The building they had chosen for their temporary shelter was brain dead proof enough to provide the comfort of safety, especially here on the roof where he sat away from his companions on the concept of being a watchman because, “Ain’t like any of you were addicts before any of this. Spent days, weeks at a time strung out with Merle, not eating, not sleeping.” Daryl would wave his friends off with an eye roll, choosing to watch over them as they stole away what little sleep they could on the rooftop. 

Sure, Daryl wasn’t strung out now and hadn’t been for longer than he remembered. He was pretty gone in the beginning and spent a lot of time afterwards higher than a kite before he and Merle ran out of what they’d scavenged. That’s when they’d met with Glenn’s group- seemed like years ago. And it was true that he’d been having issues sleeping lately, but there really wasn’t anyone better at the job than he was. Nobody could care like Daryl could. 

Not with how his eyes weren’t able to shut in the dark other than to blink and just then, barely. Not with how there was a shake inside of his limbs, with how he’d lost just enough weight to make sitting uncomfortable in his bones, weight that he hadn’t gained back yet and probably never would. He’s thankful for the cold, for the excuse of sleeves covering the self inflicted burns and cuts up his arms. Not that he was looking for attention or any of that shit, but because it brought him back to reality. It made him feel. 

In truth, Daryl hadn’t slept in weeks, not properly. He’d tried everything that came across his mind, like drinking himself stumbling into ditches and rubbing his dick raw enough to bleed and nothing seemed to work. He missed drugs all the time, the feeling of warmth down his throat and into his lungs and hacking and coughing and being somewhere else in his mind. At least then he’d have an excuse for being awake for so long. 

But when he closed his eyes, it was dark. And when it was dark, he could hear the rats scratching across the floor, the moans of the dead in room next to his, placed to scare him. They were never far away, and he’d never quite gotten used to the sickening, constant smell of rotting flesh. They reached through the bars out at him, and their fingers would grab the rats that bit at his naked toes. Negan’s torture was hell, and every day Daryl wished for death. He cursed himself for being too weak, too scared that be couldn’t give himself over to the dead. Not even to spite Negan. 

So he didn’t sleep, and instead kept watch over his loved ones while he pressed the tips of his cigarettes into his arms, stomach turning at the smell of his own flesh burning. It didn’t matter. It grounded him, made him feel steady and real. 

And thinking back, Daryl could pinpoint exactly where it all started - not watching Sophia stumble from the barn, but the tear in Carol’s voice and the sound of her sobs raking through her chest. Daryl’s heart cracked then and there and no matter how much he or anyone else tried, the crack got bigger until it caved into a great divide, into the fucking Grand Canyon, and he doesn’t know if he can go on, how much longer he can take it, just what there is left worth fighting for. The people he loved most in the world slowly disappeared one by one, leaving Daryl alone. 

Not that he was alone, of course. There was Carol and Michonne, Judith, Aaron, and Jesus.

But some nights, the nights where he was too exhausted or wound up to take watch, where Michonne or one of the kids forced him to sleep rather than stand guard, Daryl would crawl deep into his sleeping bag and tuck his head in and zip up the top - it kept out the cold and let him mourn in peace.

Sophia. T-Dog. Lori. Merle. Andrea. Hershel. Beth. Noah. Glenn. Sasha. Carl. 

Their names and faces popped into his head and their memories wiggled their ways back from where he’d repressed them and it always gave Daryl an audible groan while he opened his eyes wide with his head between his knees and counted to 30, over and back and back and over again until he could breathe and see again. His panic attacks were new, brought on by what he’d been through with Negan. Thinking of panic attacks made him roll his eyes, Merle squeezing through the barrier in his mind. 

“Panic attacks, little brother? No, I guess I ain’t never had a little brother - little sister seems to be more like it. I don’t know how you turned into such a pussy, kid.”

He counted himself lucky enough that his attacks never happened in front of the others, either only in the safe, warm confines of his sleeping bag or while he was alone, an excuse to piss in the woods or deep search some buildings. While Daryl trusted his companions with everything, loved them more than he knew he had to give, there wasn’t the slightest chance in hell he’d let anybody see him like this.


	2. Chapter 2

He felt Weak. Tired. So, so tired. There’d never been anything that had compared to that, not the days he’d spent strung out with Merle. Not the days he’d spent on the road with his group - his family - always on watch, constantly aware. This was something new. Nothing he did could relieve the ache deep in his bones, no amount of sleeping or sobbing or jerking off seemed to help and Daryl knew he was going insane. 

Rather, he knew this was how he was going to die and he didn’t care anymore. He’d gone through moods during his imprisonment - more than he’d ever gone through in his life - and was stuck on apathy. If he were to die, let him. He knew he wouldn’t be going to heaven, but maybe he had done enough small good deeds in his life to earn him a few good favors afterwards. Swaying the help with survivors here or there, maybe the chance to see Merle again. Beth. Glenn. 

The names in his mind ached deep in his heart but he had nothing left to give, nothing to cry out or scream at. Instead, Daryl made his mind to attack whoever the next person to open his cell door, trying to do what he could to guarantee a quick death. 

But then the note slipped through.

-

He cried in the shower, and again in the comfort and safety between the sheets of his borrowed apartment at hilltop. He was glad to see the others, Sasha and Maggie and Enid, and his chest ached to see the rest of his family. But his limbs still shook, and he had this new feeling in his chest, the feeling that he was going to explode and there was no way to keep it in and he knew it was anxiety. Daryl had never had anxiety before and he coped with his newfound emotions with the edges of his sharpened knives against the sensitive flesh of his thighs, with the sizzle and sickening smell of the cherries of his cigarettes pressed against his hands and wrists that left trails of skin and burnt his hair and stung his nose and brought tears to his eyes, with the dark bruises he’d self inflicted up and down his arms. 

Every day, Daryl was consumed with dreams of killing Negan.

-

Daryl’s breath caught when he saw his family. Carl, Michonne, the others. Rick approached and Daryl’s legs shook so badly he could hardly keep himself up, but then Rick was there with his arms tight around Daryl, the sharp stink of his sweat thick in Daryl’s nose. His own arms are around Rick and the back of his mind tells him that he is clinging to the other, but he doesn’t have it in him to give a shit. Rick’s skin is hot, his shirt damp with sweat - Daryl was sure he’d never been so overwhelmed with his senses before. 

“You’re all that kept me goin’. Gettin’ back.” His voice comes out choppy, rough, low, and the emotion is clear. He can feel Rick’s shoulders shake with a chuckle before he takes Daryl’s left cheek in hand, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Daryl winces slightly at the pressure of Rick’s hand against his face, fingers putting weight against old, yellowed bruises and what Daryl suspected was a fractured eye socket. 

“We’ll talk later. I promise.” Rick’s eyes are full of love and hope but his brow his hard as he searches Daryl’s face, taking in the abuse he’d received at the hands of Negan during his imprisonment. 

Michonne is right behind Rick and Daryl is just as relieved to see her. Her strong arms hold him in a hug as he lets out a quiet sigh, one that he knows Michonne will keep for herself. Her voice is quiet and reassuring in his ear, her skin warm, her breath fresh against his temple. She was clean and well fed and muscled and Daryl did as best he could to inhale her scent. 

Michonne’s fingers run through his hair and he winces away from the touch, scalp raw and scabbed due to his torture. Michonne gives him a smile, and he can see the pain in her eyes. She presses a kiss of her own against Daryl’s forehead before following Rick.


End file.
